


A Song of Dragon and Age

by musicalheart168



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alistair is Jon Snow, Angst and Feels, Blackwall basically is Jorah Mormont, F/M, Female Trevelyans are my weakness, Ficlet Collection, Game of Thrones References, Gen, I could be your family, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Sovelyan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-08 13:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7760518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicalheart168/pseuds/musicalheart168
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dragon Age ficlets inspired by moments from Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire, prompted by the realization of just how many similarities exist between the two.</p>
<p>1) Alistair leaves Redcliffe for Templar training, inspired by Jon Snow leaving for the Wall.</p>
<p>2) Solas and Evelyn, inspired by Arya’s “I could be your family” to Gendry.</p>
<p>3) Blackwall and a different Evelyn, inspired by Ser Jorah's "There are times when I look at you and I still can’t believe you’re real" to Daenerys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t find any Word of God statement of how old Connor is in Origins. We know that Alistair was ten when he was sent away from Redcliffe, nineteen when Duncan recruited him, and twenty at the start of the Blight. So let’s say Connor is ten or eleven when he is possessed by the Desire Demon, which means I can get away with Alistair having met Baby Connor for the sake of this fic.

_Lady Stark looked over. For a moment she did not seem to recognize him. Finally she blinked. “What are you doing here?” she asked in a voice strangely flat and emotionless._

_“I came to see Bran,” Jon said. “To say good-bye.”_

_Her face did not change. Her long auburn hair was dull and tangled. She looked as though she had aged twenty years. “You’ve said it. Now go away.”_

_Part of him wanted only to flee, but he knew that if he did he might never see Bran again. He took a nervous step into the room. “Please,” he said._

_Something cold moved in her eyes. “I told you to leave,” she said. “We don’t want you here.”_

**_A Game of Thrones_ , Jon II**

* * *

 

Alistair lurks at the doorway of the nursery, tugging at his shirt as he decides whether to move forward or back. 

By all rights, he shouldn’t even be in this part of the castle now. After his spectacular tantrum ( _Disagreement_ , he corrects himself, silently, _Templar initiates don’t have tantrums, they have disagreements_ ) and storming off from the Arl, he should have kept himself firmly out of the way of the Guerrin family until his departure.

But Alistair has never been very good at keeping out of the way. And he’s never been particularly good at being a bastard, truth be told.

For as long as he could remember, he’d wondered why Lady Isolde had disliked him so much. Whispers of “bastard,” “orphan,” had plagued both her and him since the moment he was born, but the turning point had come when she finally gave birth to a son of her own. The time for Alistair to be removed from her presence had arrived.

While Alistair was not happy about being given to the Chantry, he _was_ happy to be getting away from Isolde and her meanness, behavior that had only increased as she had come closer to her delivery. On one of the hottest days he could remember, little Connor had been born. And Alistair was not going to leave Redcliffe without seeing the baby at least once. To say goodbye. 

With any luck, Isolde will be out of the nursery, brushing her hair or trying on dresses, or whatever it was that kept her so busy most of the time. Of course, luck had never really favored Alistair before. Why would it start now?

Isolde stands protectively at the side of Connor’s crib, watching him sleep. At least, Alistair assumes that he’s sleeping. It’s all babies seem to do, really. There’s no avoiding this confrontation now, and his strange, childish sense of pride steels itself against whatever is to come. He takes a breath, and steps forward into the room.

She looks up at him, dark eyes narrowing, but otherwise displays no sign of emotion at his presence. “What are you doing here?” she asks, the Orlesian lilt of her voice causing the same lurch in his stomach that it always does.

“I came to see Connor,” he says. “To say good-bye.”

Isolde’s upper lip curls as she turns her eyes away from him, looking back at her son. “You’ve said it. Now go away.”

Alistair blinks at her. He will not cry. He will not run. Except maybe to the kitchen, to get some cheese, once this is over. “Please,” he says, trying to sound horribly grownup and utterly unaffected by her coldness.

“I told you to leave,” Isolde says, glaring at him. “We don’t want you here.”

Alistair knows what she really means is “I don’t want you here.” But it still hurts to hear it all the same, knowing that the Arl and even Teagan have given into her, have _let her_ send him away.

Doesn’t she realize that she’s already won? He’s leaving. But this woman, who has hated him since the moment he was born, is keeping him from saying goodbye _properly_ to the only home he has ever known. 

 _I am going to be a knight one day. And knights do the right thing, even when they’re afraid._ And the right thing is to say goodbye to Connor. Well, hello _and_ goodbye, but the point still stands. Alistair straightens his spine, trying to walk as tall as he remembers King Maric being last time he visited. He heads straight for Connor, stopping awkwardly in front of the crib.   

Something in his face must reach Isolde, because she stares at him for a moment, a look that is both searching and angry and maybe the tiniest bit sad, but Alistair doesn’t care because she turns away with a huff and walks over to the window. He doesn’t believe for a second that she’s stopped watching him, but now he has the opening to say what he came to say, and it all begins to feel a bit silly. Connor is a baby, what will he care if some boy he won’t even remember said goodbye to him before he left the castle, probably forever? 

“Hello, Connor,” Alistair breathes, careful to not get too close and wake up the baby because, yes, sure enough, he is sleeping. And he knows from overhearing the servants that babies are either sleeping or crying and he _definitely_ does not want to be the cause of the baby crying because wouldn’t Isolde _love that?_

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come and meet you sooner,” he continues in a whisper, “but I’ve been very busy. I’m leaving, you see. Going to become a Templar. I’m not really sure what that all means yet, other than I won’t live here anymore. I would have liked getting to know you, I think. But the Arl is very excited that you were born, and you’ll like Tegan, and your mother. . .” Alistair stops. He’s certainly no expert on what it’s like to have one, but he thinks that if his mother hadn’t died, maybe she would have looked at him the way Isolde looks at Connor. “I may be just a bastard, but I think your mother loves you very much. So maybe she’ll give you my helpings of cheese from the kitchen when you’re old enough.” Ending on cheese is always a good place to stop talking, Alistair thinks, and so he takes a last look at the baby - and yes, he is very baby-like, as far as babies go - and turns.

Isolde is still very purposefully not looking at him. But Alistair knows his place. If she’s taught him one thing in his ten years of life, it’s that. He is the bastard son of a servant and she’s the Arlessa of Redcliffe Castle. He gives her the best, most polished bow he can handle without falling over and says, “Goodbye, my lady.”

Neither one of them looks back. 

* * *

 


	2. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually the first idea I had for this series, based on my recollection of an interview with Maisie Williams where she said that they shot various versions of this line, and the take they went with was the one where she had been directed to make it sound like “I love you.”
> 
> Also, I added in a handful of echoes of other Game of Thrones moments here...see if you can find them!

_Gendry: “I never had a family.”_

_Arya: “I can be your family.”_

**_Game of Thrones,_ Season 3, Episode 5: “Kissed by Fire”**

* * *

The first time she says it, he is almost certain it is a joke.

Or, if not a joke, then certainly a lighthearted statement, something he is not meant to take seriously.

The Herald has been asking him questions about his past, questions Solas answers carefully, always ensuring that he does not give too much away. She pushes through his wariness about her motives with her frank admission of admiration for him, her desire to know more about him.

He can tell that she does not entirely believe everything he tells her, that her quick mind files away his "I grew up in a village to the north" as information to pursue later. 

"Have you always travelled and studied alone?" she asks the next time she visits. 

"Not at all. I have built many lasting friendships." And that much at least is true. 

"Only friendships?" She arches an eyebrow at him.

Despite himself, he lets out a small laugh. "Sera and Blackwall have been theorizing again I see."

"No, actually," Trevelyan says, meeting his eye. "I was really asking about your family. Parents? Siblings? A wife and five children perhaps?"

"Ah." For a moment, Solas falters. This part of his story has always been the hardest to fabricate. Too little information and people become suspicious. Too much and their questions increase. In the end, the closest thing to the truth is the best he can do, and he tries to relay it in a way that forbids further comment. "I never had a family."

That quiets her for half a moment, and then she is smiling brightly at him. "I can be your family," she offers, in much the same tone of voice that she offered to loan the Warden one of her shields this morning.

He laughs again, more loudly this time, and is rewarded by the sight of her grinning back at him. 

After she leaves to join the Seeker for some training, he thinks over her proposal.

A joke, surely. But one meant kindly.  And of course it was, because Evelyn Trevelyan is a kind woman. The more he considers what he knows of her, the more sure of that fact he becomes. She was born to wealth and privilege. Dutiful service under the Chantry was expected of her, but neither faith nor a desire for power seem to motivate her. She possesses, as far as he can tell, a genuine desire to help people. Whatever her personal feelings on any subject, she will lend her aid when it is requested. He and several other of her companions have already obtained proof of that. 

She has a habit, he has noticed, of twisting a signet ring on her finger. A family heirloom most likely, and something that should stand as a symbol of just how ridiculous the idea is that he could ever be part of her family. From what he knows of this world, the fact that she even suggests it shows how unique of a person she is, how fortuitous it has been that she has been the unwitting recipient of a small portion of his own power. Most humans - most  _nobles_ , especially- would avoid any appearance of closeness with an elven mage.  

It has made things easier, in a way, the simple friendship they have begun to develop. She has helped him without a thought, activating whatever artifacts they find in their travels. She asks him questions about his studies and approaches his opinions on spirits and demons with an open mind. 

But he never forgets who he is and why he is there. Why they  _all_ are there. What his mistakes have and will cost. 

~~~~~

They have become closer, as time has gone on. As Inquisitor, she relies upon his counsel, as a friend rather than an official advisor. She has not always followed his advice, but she has always listened when he speaks, and provided her own counsel to him in the same manner. 

She had borne his clumsy declaration of his respect, smiled at the compliments that insulted her own people in the same breath. 

She does not push or pull at the boundaries he has established, smoothly ignoring when he slips and reveals too much ( _I had forgotten how much I missed court intrigue_ , indeed). 

He knows she is curious about elves. Her questions have always been respectful, finding a delicate balance between acknowledging the differences between them and trying to make it so they do not exist. Not between the two of them. So when he stumbled into the admission that he does not consider himself to have much in common with the elves, he saw immediately that she would not let it pass.

Evelyn had stared at him, twisting her family ring as she always does when she's thinking. There was an intensity in her eyes that he had not seen before. Not directed at him. An important question waited on the back of her tongue, and the thought unnerved him.

Finally, she had spoken. "Who do you have much in common with? Who are your people?"

Of course. One of the questions he cannot truthfully answer. It has always been his goal to burden their friendship with as few lies as possible. So he tries to evade. "A good question. I joined the Inquisition to save the world. Regardless of who 'my people' are, this was the best way to help them." 

If she had pursued the conversation further, there is no telling where it would have gone.

Surprising him, as she she often does, she had simply responded, "You're an admirable man. Not many people know who they are the way you do."

The compliment, as always, made him slightly uneasy. Left him uncertain how to respond. "Thank you. Both for saying that and . . . for seeing that. Few in this world can see me . . . instead of just seeing a pair of pointed ears."

Her eyes were wide with sympathy when he finally met her gaze and the moment, whatever it was, had passed heavily. 

Not for the first time, Solas wonders if the worst of his mistakes are still to come. 

~~~~~

The second time she says it, he is not certain  _what_  she means.

Something has changed between him, but not in any demonstrable way. They have not quarreled - his anger over her forgiveness of the Grey Wardens has long since cooled -  nor has he burdened her with any more of his fumbling attempts at conveying his respect. His admiration. His. . .

Nothing has changed for him, he is certain. He still knows his duty. And she knows hers. 

After the Temple of Mythal, she seeks him out. She does not prod at him, but rather lets him question her. The desire to understand, to analyze, to find some answer to all the problems that plague him, spurs him on. It is unwise to question her too closely about future plans. Never mind that there is no certainty to be found while Corypheus lives. Never mind that a humble apostate would surely have no concern for what happens next beyond his own freedom. 

She considers his questions and when her answer comes, it almost angers him. "We can't go back to the way things were. I'll try to help this world move forward."

"You would risk everything you have in the hope that the future is better? What if it isn't? What if you wake up to find that the future you shaped is worse than what was?" 

Her gaze is steady, calm in spite of his obvious agitation. Another slip he can ill afford. "I'll take a breath, see where things went wrong, and then try again."

If only it could be so simple. He can see from her perspective how it might be, though her task would not be an easy one should she survive. But these thoughts are meaningless. Should they successfully defeat Corypheus, it will only be a matter of time. Even knowing this, he has to thank her, to try and convey somehow what her friendship has meant. "You have not been what I expected, Inquisitor. You have . . . impressed me. You have offered hope that if one keeps trying, even if the consequences are grave . . . that someday, things will be better."

Better is, of course, a relative term. And he can tell that she is confused by the turn the conversation had taken, or at least curious. He has likely revealed too much. Again.

"Forgive my melancholy. Corypheus has cost us much. The Temple of Mythal did not deserve such a fate. The orb he carries, and its stolen power . . . that, at least, we may still recover. With luck, some of the past may yet survive."

Her response, when it comes, is much quieter than he expects. "The past." She searches his face and he hopes that he has revealed enough for one evening, that she will not be able to see any more than she already has. She steps closer to him, only slightly, but enough for his gaze to focus on the details of her expression. "Solas, is the past the only thing you care about? I had hoped-" She stops, shakes her head slightly, and the movement startles him. He had not realized that she was close enough to touch, that his fingers had reached out, almost unconsciously, towards her. He is not ready to think about what that might mean.

Evelyn meets his gaze squarely, and finishes her thought. "The offer still stands, you know. When this is all over. I can be your family." Stepping away from him, she does not pause to see the effect of her words, but silently exits the room, leaving him alone and troubled. 

He waits until he knows she is gone and then sits at the makeshift desk with something like a sigh. 

What did she mean by it? This time, she had clearly emphasized the word  _family_ , and the idea was no longer a laughable one. The Inquisition as a whole had come to resemble a family for her. A mismatched one - nowhere near as illustrious as the passel of Trevelyans he understood to occupy the whole of Thedas - but a family nonetheless. 

But she had not offered the Inquisition as his family. He could easily understand, in her kindness, the desire to provide the poor, wandering apostate somewhere safe, somewhere permanent. But she had offered  _herself_. 

What exactly did that entail? A place at her side? A seat at her table as she helped clean the mess that Corypheus has created—with _his_ magic?  A position somewhat akin to adopted brother? Or something else entirely? 

 _No._ The thought is absurd.  _Both_ thoughts are absurd. He is not her brother, could never be considered as such, not as an elf and certainly not as an apostate mage. As for the other- surely that is not what she had intended. 

For a brief moment, he considers. What if he told her the truth? Who he was, what he has done? She would not willingly assist him with the destruction of her own people, but  _perhaps_ ,  _perhaps_ . . . 

_Who are your people?_

There might be another way. Because as surely as he knows that in the end, it does not matter, for he must finish what he has started, he knows that _she_ is his people. His person.  _His_. And he is  _hers_. Whatever they are, they are family of some sort.

And it changes nothing. _It cannot_.  

* * *

The final time she says it is when he truly understands.

Two years have passed. Two years after leaving her and the Inquisition behind with barely a word, the truth untold. He had thought duty would be enough, that pouring himself into his goals would be enough.

It isn't.

When he sees her again, for the first time since the Orb's destruction - when he had pitifully declared that it _was not supposed to happen this way_ -  and she spasms, the Anchor the cause of what must be extraordinary pain, it takes everything within him not to run to her side. 

She has already figured it out, of course. Her eyes are clear of judgement when she proclaims him a hero. She listens to all he has to tell her, quietly, until he comes to the last of it, the one truth he cannot flinch from and that he knows she will be unable to forgive. "I will save the elven people, even if it means this world must die." 

"Why does this world have to die for the elves to return?" Her voice demands an answer and he knows that however much he may want to, he cannot let her persuade him. 

"A good question, but not one I will answer. You have always shown a thoughtfulness I respected. It would be too easy to tell you too much." 

He knows she will not simply leave it at that, but when she falls to her knees in agony a second time, there are more pressing concerns. He has suspected the true condition of the Mark for some time - though his spies had been able to tell him little - and he knows what he needs to do. For her sake, certainly, but also for the power that remains dormant for him to claim. "The Mark will eventually kill you. Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you . . . at least for now." 

He is hesitant to touch her for many reasons. He does not want to cause her pain. And it is certainly not impossible that she might choose to attack him now, even as weak as she is. But mostly he pauses because he is  _afraid_ to touch her. 

"Solas!" Her voice is pleading, but the strength is still there, forcing him to stop and listen. "You don't need to destroy this world. I'll prove it to you."

Whatever response he would have given is lost as she grabs his hand, not with the anchored one, but her right hand. The Trevelyan signet presses into his palm and he feels her trying and failing to remove the ring from her finger using her thumb.

"Evelyn-" She's not holding back the tears anymore and that fact alone is enough to make him want to weep with her, to hold her properly for the first and last time. 

She takes a steadying breath, and continues, "Take it. It's yours. It's always been yours."

He removes the ring from her finger, and somehow it feels more significant than what else he must take from her now. 

After he has put the ring on his own pinky, she smiles at him, desperately, and puts her forehead against his. _"I can be your family."_

And he knows now the horrible significance of the words, because he feels them echo as if they are the words she had actually said- " _I love you_."

"My love . . ." he whispers brokenly, and his eyes glow a brief moment. He removes the Anchor from her as their lips meet, shuddering with the combined regret of what it will mean for her arm and the undeniable feeling of  _finally_.     

He stands regretfully, while he still has the willpower, and makes her the only promise he truthfully can. 

"I will never forget you."

~~~~ 

Later he will relive the moment again and again, sitting and staring at the ring she has given him and trying desperately to come to some conclusion.

He has been wrong before. He could be again.   

And for now, that hope has to be enough for them both. 


	3. Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess it's more noticeable for a Blackwall who romances the Inquisitor, but oh boy do I see a lot of Jorah parallels: carrying a torch for the tough woman in charge; secretly being a lying liar who lies; the bear associations. I absolutely ship Jorah and Dany, and this scene is one of my favorites. I thought it would work nicely for this ficlet series. 
> 
> I've fiddled around a bit with the sequence of some of the in-game dialogue so that it better suits my own purposes.  
> Special shout-out to [LavellanLove](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LavellanLove/pseuds/LavellanLove) for helping me crack the writer's block I developed with this one!

_“You may cover it up and deny it, but you have a gentle heart. You would not only be respected and feared, you would be loved. Someone who can rule and should rule. Centuries come and go without a person like that coming into the world. There are times when I look at you and I still can’t believe you’re real.”_

**_Game of Thrones,_ Season 2, Episode 5: “The Ghost of Harrenhal”**

* * *

Thom joins the Inquisition for the cause, to help the people caught in the middle of all the chaos. He doesn't give much thought to the so-called Herald of Andraste, not until he arrives at Haven and she catches him staring up at the Breach.

"Maker, look at it. So much easier to ignore when it’s far away." Not that he could, of course. He'd spent enough of his life ignoring the causes of other people's suffering. "And to actually walk out of it, to be that close . . ."

He sneaks a glance at the woman who's come to stand at his side. All things considered, Evelyn Trevelyan isn't that striking, certainly not someone you'd expect to be the figurehead of a religious and political revolution. In some ways, she's the stereotypical Circle Mage - no practical skills to speak of and jumps when she hears heavy armor approaching - but in others, she defies his expectations. For one thing, she is damned uncomfortable with the whole Herald of Andraste business, practically turns green when someone addresses her as "Your Worship." And she has a caustic sense of humor, a sarcastic tongue that spares no one, not even herself. So it's no surprise when she turns his comment into a joke.

"It’s right there. We could take a trip if you’re that curious."

"I’m gonna have to decline. At least until I learn more about it." The smile that was threatening to break out is stifled as the enormity of the situation sinks back in. "The Breach, the Divine’s Death, the Wardens: it doesn’t make sense. So much we don’t know."

And of course, she picks up on that. "Already feeling like part of the team, I see."

"Too soon? I thought we were building a rapport." He teases her right back, but after so long as a loner there’s something to be said for having more than himself to depend on. And as much as she might dislike the fact, Evelyn certainly inspires her followers, with camaraderie if not with devotion.  

She’s a puzzle, this supposed Herald of Andraste. "So, you already know something of me. What about you? How do you fit into all this?"

She frowns then, looking off at the soldiers training not too far from them. “I just want to help stop the war, try to put things back in order.”

“A worthy goal, one I’m happy to support. For me, I’ll be satisfied so long as we find the bastards who killed the Divine. They owe us some answers.”

~~~~

And for a while, that seems like that’s all this will be. The means to an end. A way of helping, of doing good. But little things (that are not little things to others) begin to catch his attention. The way she not only clears the Hinterlands of bandits, rogue Templars, and rebel mages, but also spends hours chasing rams around the lake, electrocuting them with her magic so the refuges can eat. The way she takes the time to deliver flowers for an old elven widower and brings a roaming druffalo home. And especially the way she starts looking for the Warden artifacts the moment he mentions them. 

He half expects her to throw a fireball at him when he finally works his way up to complimenting her. But while he’s shirking his usual habits to work with a group, he won’t hold back from telling his companions what he thinks. Especially not her.  "You’ve proven yourself to be an honorable woman. Principled. I’ve great admiration for you. And I’ve never been more certain of my decision to join you."

She quirks an eyebrow, almost as if she’s expecting a joke. "I would never have guessed that you admire me."

"Of course I do. You have the world at your feet, myself included." Maker's balls. He doesn’t mean to make it sound flirtatious, but somehow it comes out that way. 

Evelyn snorts dismissively. "So you take your cue from everyone else? What if they despised me?" 

Bugger it. He’s too old to back down with a stammer and a blush, if that’s what she’s expecting. Nothing for it but to brazen it out. "If that were to happen, I would reject the world for lacking in good taste. And perhaps we could continue as we are. Us against them.”

She laughs then, loudly and with what appears to be genuine enjoyment. Much better than the self-deprecating chortles he usually hears from her. “Now we should return to our duties before I get too carried away."

And then the thought of what getting carried away could entail takes hold, and the admiration begins to mix with other feelings entirely.

~~~~

Eventually, he starts to see the crack in her facade, the strain of the burdens placed on her. When she returns from Redcliffe, rebel mages in tow, her face is grim, her mood black.

He wonders if the disapproval of some of her companions has gotten to her, but the Evelyn he knows would be more likely to laugh in Vivienne’s face or tease Cassandra until she grunts in disgust. The way she quietly kicks snow down towards Haven’s frozen lake is disquieting behavior coming from her. It’s much too placid.

Stepping forward to stand just behind her, he tries to keep his voice even. "There was never going to be an easy answer to the mage dilemma. What you did for the mages took courage. You gave them a chance. Everyone deserves one." And if the vehemence of his belief can be heard in his voice, well, let her think it’s for her, for her deeds as the Herald of Andraste, and not the hidden hope of his own. To her, he must never be anything other than Blackwall. And what could  _ Blackwall  _ have ever done to require a chance- to prove himself, to atone?

His own broodings are interrupted by Evelyn’s laughter. Not her real laughter, but the brittle version of it she uses to hide her true feelings. “Courage? I did nothing for the mages. And I gave them no chance. I needed their help and I obtained it. That’s all there is to it.” She sets her chin and meets his gaze, as if daring him to contradict her. 

“I know we’ve not spoken of it, my lady. But surely you want to help your fellow mages?” She scoffs at him, but he continues. “You have a gentle heart, and I know it must have worried you to know how they’ve been living.”

“You know nothing about it!” The outburst catches him by surprise, and so does the way Evelyn advances towards him. “All I have ever wanted was to keep my nose down and  _ survive _ . I’m not a hero, I’m not the bloody Herald of Andraste, and  _ I do not have a gentle heart. _ ” Her head droops a little, but then she’s looking straight at him again with striking clarity. “If you had a weakness in the Circle, it was exploited. And do not doubt it, Ser Blackwall, gentleness  _ is  _ a weakness.”

“But you’re not in a Circle anymore, my lady. And your instincts are good. You’ve earned the loyalty, the friendship of every person here because of what you do. Not because of being touched by the Maker or saved by Andraste, not because you’re some powerful mage or descended from a noble family, but because of  _ you. _ ”  

The fight goes out of her then, and she turns her back on him. But there’s acceptance in that gesture and something else in the way she whispers “Thank you, Blackwall,” as he starts to walk away. 

~~~~

What feels like ages later - after closing the Breach, after the surprise attack on Haven, after her own apparent sacrifice to save the rest of them, after her miraculous return, emerging from the snow - she finds him. They have begun packing up the camp, preparing to travel to some destination their de-facto leader has chosen after consulting with Solas. And she is their leader now, in absolute truth, in some immeasurable way that she had not been before this. 

She crosses to his side, staring along with him into the dying fire. "Why did you join the Wardens?"

It’s a question she’s danced around before, and he’s put her off as best he could. But now, standing here, he knows he has to answer with the truth. With as much of it as he can. "Because they remember honor and sacrifice, words that have little meaning to the rest of us.  Because they lay down their lives for those they have sworn to protect. We all need to believe there are such men in the world. I needed to believe I could be one of them."

She considers his words in silence for a moment, and then the impetus behind her visit becomes clear. “I heard some of the men talking. They think I will be put in charge.  _ Officially. _ ”  

“I can think of no one better, my lady.”

“I can think of several,” she grimaces.

"You may have Andraste’s favor, but wars are won by men. Soldiers. And your men: they’re passionate. Devoted. You inspire them. Build on that foundation, and you will have an army that makes nations tremble." He doesn’t mean to lecture her, only to encourage, but she’s frustrated with his guidance- that much becomes abundantly clear.    


“And should I be making nations tremble?” she demands, “All I’ve wanted for the past several days - in between allying with the mages, closing the Breach, and surviving a _ fucking avalanche  _ \- is to have a moment to breathe. Is that the sort of person who should be inspiring anyone? Leading anyone?”

“Yes. If anyone should, it’s you.” He takes her hands in his own, driven by the desperate need to make her understand. “You may cover it up and deny it, but you have a gentle heart. You would not only be respected and feared, you would be loved.” His breath almost catches on the last word, and he knows he’s approaching dangerous territory, but it’s too late to stop now, because she has to know. “Someone who can rule and should rule. Centuries come and go without a person like that coming into the world. There are times when I look at you and I still can’t believe you’re real.”

And for the first time Thom can remember, Evelyn doesn’t have a retort. She just looks at him, wide-eyed, and he knows he’s gone too far. She is a lady, she is the Herald of Andraste, and she will be the Inquisitor.

He is _nothing_. He can be nothing to her but a sword at her side, a champion at her back. He will be her servant in heart, body, and soul, and to see her victorious and safe, he would gladly give up all three. 


End file.
